


Long Live the Queen

by Brightki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Prequel, The Reclamation of Black Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10058285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightki/pseuds/Brightki
Summary: Dorea Black was once highly sought after as the epitome of the pureblood wife. While other, more appropriate matches were seeking her hand in marriage, she couldn't stop thinking about a certain messy-haired Gryffindor. (prequel, of sorts, to shayalonnie's The Reclamation of Black Magic) *COMPLETE*





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShayaLonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Reclamation of Black Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8374798) by [ShayaLonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/pseuds/ShayaLonnie). 



> A/N: Hello there! This is something a bit different than my usual, as well as being some fanfiction of fanfiction! This is a prequel of sorts to shayalonnie's The Reclamation of Black Magic which, if you aren't reading, you should be (and will be a Harry/Hermione)!
> 
> If you enjoy, review! Thank you!

PART ONE

Dorea nibbles at the piece of lightly buttered toast, grey eyes flashing as she surveys the rest of the Slytherin girls, all neatly arrayed at the breakfast table. As Head Girl, she is well-known as a strict but fair disciplinarian… _if you are caught_.

The girls are neatly dressed, hair pinned back, ties straight – all in all, a lovely picture of pureblood refinement, and Dorea is no exception. Her eyes flicker to the letter from Miranda, delivered just as breakfast began that morning and currently residing neatly tucked beneath her plate until she can read it in the peace of her empty first class before the others arrive. Her best friend had graduated from Hogwarts three years prior, but that hasn't stopped their constant correspondence by owl.

She sighs, dropping the last bite of her toast to the plate and stands, deftly slipping her letter into a pocket of her outer robe as she glances down the table one last time. "All right, ladies. Breakfast is over in ten minutes. Please finish your meal and make sure to be on time for your first classes." She nods towards the group in general, though her eyes lingering on Walburga and Lucretia's bent together heads. Everyone knew that Walburga and Orion were to be married upon his graduation from Hogwarts in a few more years, and his sister had been steadily filling the other girl's head with facts and tips since the announcement at the beginning of that school year.

Dorea huffs silently, gathering her bag and slipping from the table, walking at a consciously proper pace towards the Great Hall's wide open doors when all she wants is to stride through the aisle and escape to read her letter. She glances around once or twice as she walks, her eyes lingering a moment too long on a messy head of black hair, currently tilted back in raucous laughter from something one of the Longbottoms must have said. Most likely the elder, Algernon, judging by the wide grin on his face. Enid is younger, and currently blushing a brilliant shade of red, though her shining eyes are fixed on Charlus Potter's face as though he were the _very best thing_ in the whole room.

It makes her lips pinch tight, leaving her struggling to maintain the supercilious expression on her face.

Resolutely, she turns her face back to the door and allows herself to walk just a smidge faster. Through the doors and down the hall, up three flights of stairs, and down another hall later, she is so close to the classroom… and some peace.

But it isn't meant to be.

Just as she nears the door, just within arm's reach, "Ah, Miss Black. Allow me." The smooth voice speaks up from just behind her, as a tall, broad figure appears, practically from nowhere, right by her side. One arm, immaculately clothed in expensive black wool, neatly buttoned and perfectly tailored, reaches past her to grasp the classroom door handle with one smooth, clean hand.

Her eyes fasten to the Nott signet ring and linger as the hand it resides on pulls open the door. After a long moment, she glances away, her eyes trailing along the long arm, to the broad, strong shoulder, along the neck and up into the deep blue eyes of Thoros Nott.

The Slytherin Head Boy dips his head, motioning for her to enter the room ahead of him, the smallest smile lingering at the corner of his lips. "After you, Miss Black."

Dorea hesitates, her eyes still fastened to his face before she turns and strides into the classroom. "Thank you, Mr Nott."

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Black." Thoros steps into the room behind her, allowing the door to swing shut. He hesitates, watching her move to her seat before walking to his own and setting his bag in the chair, his eyes moving to her again. He stares at her for a long moment, as she sits and unpacks her bag for class, including setting a letter from her robe pocket on the tabletop. He quickly looks away when she glances at him before she turns back to the letter in her hands.

Thoros watches her from the corner of his eye as he unloads his own parchment and quills onto the table. She is now reading the letter, a smile tugging at her cheeks and grey eyes glittering brilliantly when he clears his throat sharply and takes three steps in her direction.

Her dark head snaps up, the smile fading though not disappearing, as her eyes latch onto his figure. "Is everything all right, Mr Nott?"

He swallows as he steps closer, smoothing his hands along his robes. "Yes, Miss Black… Dorea." He takes another step, motioning vaguely with his ringed hand. "Have you spoken with your father lately?"

Dorea's brows arch slowly as she turns her knees to face him. "My father, Thoros? He sends a letter every week, Saturdays at breakfast, the same as every other year prior to this one. I'll hear from him tomorrow."

"Good; that's good then." Thoros nods absently as he rubs his thumb against the top of his ring.

Her eyes narrow as she straightens, her eyes flicking down to his idle hands then up to his braced shoulders, and the barely-there nervous expression on his features. "What is going on?"

"I know that it is proper to wait for your father to speak with you first, however…" He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, settling those brilliant and intense eyes on her face. "I felt that our… existing relationship may allow for some familiarity, and I wish to express my regard for you, Dorea. I have spoken with my father, who has approached your father. I would like to marry you, after graduation, Miss Black."

Dorea's eyes widen and her lips part, rather unattractively gaping at the very attractive and apparently earnest man standing in front of her. "Thoros… I, I don't… That is…"

"I know that you feel your affections may lie elsewhere; however, I believe and would like to show you that our match would be advantageous. Would you accompany me to Hogsmeade next weekend?"

She watches him swallow hard, her eyes flickering between his as she processes his words. The faintest tinge of pink highlights his rather sharp cheekbones, high up and bleeding into the tips of his ears. It's a rather endearing look, and she can feel herself soften towards him. Thoros is smart, wickedly so, well-dressed, well-behaved, well-breed… quite literally everything that she _should_ be seeking in a husband.

Just as she opens her mouth to respond, the door bangs open as the Gryffindor contingent, led by a loudly arguing Charlus Potter and Algernon Longbottom, blows into the room.

Her mouth closes slowly, and when she finally turns her eyes from the gleam of round silver frames, Thoros is still standing near her, watching her.

His face is blank, though his eyes are entirely _too knowing_. He quirks a brow before turning and stalking back to his seat two tables down and settles into his chair, eyes locked on the still empty chalkboard as they wait for the professor to appear.

Dorea relaxes even as a frown tugs at her lips, forcing herself to turn away from the other Slytherin and to face the front of the classroom. From the corner of her eye, she sees a sudden flash of red and when she glances over to the next table, Charlus meets her eyes, a wide grin on his face. She blinks in surprise before slowly returning his smile.

Just as the arithmancy professor bustles in, huffing about how the stairs changed on him at the last minute _yet again_ , he throws a quick wink in her direction before facing forward.

_Morgana, help me._


	2. Part Two

PART TWO

_… I know you will make the better choice, sister. After all, as the youngest, it may take longer to find you a husband. Cassiopeia hasn't settled yet and, while she refuses to answer my owls, she is corresponding with father. Irma sends her regards, as well, and urges you to consider her cousin, only six years out of Hogwarts._

_Your brother,_

_Pollux_

_…Don't mind your brother, sweet. He is newly married to the Crabbe girl, and has his mind set upon the propagation of the family name. You will make the best choice for you, and barring any negative extremities, I can see nothing wrong with that._

_With love, your father._

Dorea huffs at the two letters sitting on her desk, staring down at the neat lines of script, almost identical (they had all been taught script by the same house elf, after all) except for her brother's habitual flourish on any X.

Tucking the letters neatly into her folio as she stands, she gathers up her warm cloak before stepping from her room, an easy wave of her wand locking the door behind her. She glances around the almost empty common room, the only students in sight a couple of first years huddled together over a large book in one of the plush armchairs. She smiles at the sight before tugging the cloak around her shoulders as she slips out the double doors.

Striding through the dungeons, she flicks her dark hair from under her collar, the edges of her cloak billowing and flowing behind her.

It's been three months since Thoros first proposed to her and while it has been difficult, she has managed to avoid having to answer him. Of course, having left the castle for the entirety of the holidays and carefully dodging any and all Notts at the parties helped.

However, the letters she read this Saturday morning have almost ruined any hopes she has of dodging a pureblood marriage. Not only has Thoros' father sent a letter to her father but _now_ …

Stepping into the atrium, Dorea stops in her tracks at the sight in front of her. A few small crowds of students stand plastered to the walls and murmuring to one another near the Great Hall and main entrances.

In the very center, approximately thirty feet from one another, stand Thoros Nott and Abraxas Malfoy, facing one another, wands drawn, and magic practically vibrating in the air. They both bear the marks of numerous stinging curses and burning hexes on their skin and clothes, Thoros standing with a very uncharacteristic snarl on his face, while Abraxas is coolly sneering at his counterpart. Their hair is mussed, Thoros' shorter darker hair almost spiking out, while Abraxas' normally neat queue is falling around his face. It even looks as though a large chunk of it has taken the brunt of a slicing hex.

"You've gone too far, Malfoy! You have crossed the line of acceptability!"

"Nott, you've had your chance! For months, you've been prancing around and never taking a chance to move forward. My father has decided this course, and I agree with him. Now you can step aside, or you can accept my formal challenge." Abraxas arches a brow, grey-blue eyes narrowed at the bristling man across the space.

Thoros lets out an inelegant snort, stabbing his wand sharply and glaring when his stinging curse fizzles out on Abraxas' shield. "I'll never step aside. I have the first claim, and nothing you _nor your father_ can do will change that."

"Excuse me, gentlemen." Dorea steps forward then, eyes narrowed in anger as she palms her wand, gaze focused hard on both young men. "You're blocking the exit for these students with your little show. Please desist and remove yourself, immediately, before I report you both for magic usage in the corridors."

The two eighteen-year-olds snap to attention upon hearing Dorea's voice, turning towards her and bowing deeply, all while carefully concealing their wands. If their actions – _in public_ – didn't make her want to feed them both to the giant squid, their almost identical movements would have made her laugh.

With a sniff, she motions to the other students to move along, waving her hands at them, before she walks past the two men with her nose in the air whilst resolutely ignoring the two sets of eyes fastened to her neatly buttoned boots. "Good afternoon, Mr Nott, Mr Malfoy."

She almost makes it to the door when the solid thud of a fist meeting flesh makes her whirl around, mouth opening with a shout. Abraxas stands over Thoros, his reddened knuckles still tightly fisted as he breathes hard, all while glaring at his opponent who lies sprawled on the floor and clutching his jaw.

"Abraxas Malfoy! How _dare_ you, you - you toad!" Dorea stomps over and shoves the blond out of the way before reaching out to help Thoros up. "Let's get you to the infirmary, Thoros." She scowls over at a stunned looking Abraxas, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Physical violence, Abraxas? Like some kind of _muggle_?" She sneers, shaking her head as she loops her arm through Thoros' and tugs him along towards the infirmary.

She completely misses the smug smirk Thoros shoots in his competitor's direction and the returning snarl that breaks across Abraxas' face.

After walking Thoros to the infirmary and watching him be set to rights by the healer, she frowns up at him. "That was completely unnecessary, Mr Nott. Causing such a scene in the middle of the school, where anyone could see you? That is so unlike you!"

Thoros lets out a sigh, peering down at Dorea through his mussed hair. "Abraxas is an uncouth blighter. He confronted me, told me his father had sent a letter of intent to your father; that you would accept him because his family was more wealthy."

"And?" Her sharp eyes narrow as she plants her hands at her waist. "Even _if_ any of those things were true, you should have been the better man and avoided such a public confrontation. Yes, I'm sure he followed after you, or otherwise instigated you; he _is_ an uncouth blighter."

The corner of his previously marked mouth quirks up before he leans toward her. "But you escorted me to the infirmary."

Her brows pop up in surprise as she looks back at his face. "Well, yes. You were injured in a duel over my name; it was the right thing to do."

"You chose me." Thoros smiles at her before standing. In her surprise at his words, she doesn't move and they remain a little too close for propriety's sake. He reaches into an inner pocket of his robes, withdrawing a small package wrapped in purple silk.

"Thoros…" Dorea trails off as he holds it out to her. She glances at his face then to his hand before reaching out with barely trembling hands to take the small bundle. She backs away, carefully unwrapping it, all with her eyes on him.

He watches her closely, leaning towards her with every muscle tense with anticipation.

Finally, she looks down and lets out a slow breath. The brooch is beautiful: a giant moonstone, easily the size of an egg, ringed by tastefully proportional, brilliantly sparkling rose diamonds, all mounted on a shining silver pin. It's truly beautiful, and she turns it in her hand slowly to admire it.

"Turn it over."

His voice is thick and low, rather deeper than she's ever noticed his voice, and she obeys his instruction almost immediately, instinctively. There, engraved into the thick band of silver that supports the back of the moonstone, is her name in a slanted, curling script that she is almost sure is his own handwriting.

Dorea stares down at it, her lips parted in shock.

"When we marry, it will change to Nott. Or I could change it now if you'd rather."

When she looks up at him, her eyes narrow at his smug self-assurance. When he reaches out towards her, as though to take the brooch and to _change_ the name _for her_ , as though she couldn't do it herself – _as though she had accepted anything_! But she hadn't.

In a flash, the brooch is no longer in her hand and has collided with his freshly repaired face.

"How _dare_ you assume that I was accepting your proposal?! Just because I helped you to the infirmary?! You vile little flea! You are no better than Abraxas Malfoy!"

Dorea spins on her heel and strides from the room. She stalks through the halls blindly, her shoulders heaving until she pushes into an unused classroom. She claws at the heavy winter cloak, yanking it from her shoulders and throwing it to the ground before finally letting out a small sob.

"Dorea?"

She shrieks, jumping at the sound of an unexpected voice, before spinning around towards the door. There stands Charlus Potter, hovering in the doorway with a frown on his lips as he watches her with cautious brown eyes. "Are you alright?"

It takes a few tries before the word finally bursts free. "No." Instantly, she finds herself wrapped in strong, thick arms, pulled tight against a barrel of a chest. She sniffles back the tears as she presses her face into his chest. "No, I'm not alright."

"It's all right; I've got you now. You can tell me what's wrong. I'll help you."

His voice is soft against her hair and her arms, hanging loosely before winding tight around his waist to hold him back. The sweet scent of icing from the cinnamon rolls at breakfast still clings to his breath, as well as strong tea, and from his clothes, sandalwood and fire smoke.

He smells like _home_.


	3. Part Three

PART THREE

_Seventeen Years Later…_

The murmur of two men a few aisles away is enough to distract her from the household charms book she's idly flipping through. She huffs, pushing her hair from her face as she makes her way down the aisle, scanning the shelves as she goes.

She and Charlus married shortly after leaving Hogwarts, and were very happy together for years; they still are, very much. The only dark spot in the brightness of their lives had been their inability for so long to get pregnant. Now, in her mid-thirties, they had finally succeeded. At seven months gone, her robes were pulling snug against her stomach, breathing is getting difficult, and whenever Charlus makes her laugh (which is often), she pees a little. It was all ridiculously unnecessary, and she would never give up even a second of it.

Passing through to the next aisle, she frowns at the abrupt cessation of the conversation nearby. After a few moments of her continuing to quietly browse, there is a rustle of cloth and a tall, heavily robed figure passes the aisle she is in.

The passing profile of Orion Black causes her to back further into the aisle. No matter that she had been friendly with his sister, and still occasionally traded letters with Lucretia (though a Prewett for many years now); Orion was as black as his name and she could only feel sorrow for the poor boy born in November, and only now two months old. He would either be spoilt terribly or abused worse.

So occupied with avoiding Orion, Dorea momentarily forgot to pay attention to the other side of the aisle. She glances over her shoulder quickly, preparing to escape, but only finds herself frozen under the intense navy blue gaze of Thoros Nott.

Seventeen years older, distinguished greys already heavily weaving through his shoulder length hair, Thoros stands at the end of the aisle, watching her closely. "Dorea."

"Thoros." She hesitates briefly then turns around to face him, letting out a deep breath as the hand resting on the swell of her stomach tightens. "It's good to see you."

His eyes drop to her hand and his mouth tightens, the sparkle in his eyes dimming. "And you, Mrs Potter. You're looking well. Congratulations are in order."

Dorea smiles tightly, taking a deep breath and nodding in return. "Thank you, Mr Nott. I'll pass them on to my husband as well."

They stand together, looking at one another in silence for a lingering moment before she clears her throat and waves one hand towards the door. "You were meeting with Orion Black? I heard he had a son before the holidays."

Thoros nods slowly. "His heir. Sirius."

"I saw the announcement in the Daily Prophet." She hesitates as her fingers find a small itch and idly rubs at it through the soft wool of her robes. "And you? I have not seen any announcements about you, Mr Nott."

His eyes narrow and he takes a step closer to her before he eases back onto his heels. "That is true. I must admit to having been more occupied with other endeavors in recent years. Now that the _infallible_ Dorea Black – excuse me, Potter – has married and produced an heir, perhaps it _is_ time that I turn my attention to such a project as well."

Dorea straightens, her mouth tightening as she glares across the books at him. "What a lovely idea, Thoros; perhaps it will give you focus. Something less… _vexatious_."

A soft, somewhat sad laugh escapes him before he shakes his head. There's a pause before he speaks again, "I'm afraid that's the sum of it, Dorea." Thoros glances back up and meets her eyes, watching her expression change to something softer, before he turns away with a subtle clearing of his throat. "I must be going; I have a meeting. Take care, Mrs Potter."

"And you as well, Mr Nott." She stands aside as he slips past her, the edges of his cloak brushing against her legs and clinging for the briefest moment to the cloth before being pulled away.

Dorea stands at the end of the aisle, watching Thoros exit the bookstore without another glance back. She sees him stop on the cobbles when another man approaches, the shiny black waves giving away Romulus Lestrange even from the distance. They walk together, heading away from the bookshop and disappearing into the crowds of other witches and wizards out shopping.

She stands there for a while, staring out the window, until one of the employees stops to ask if she needs any assistance. With a shake of her head and a tense smile, she slips from the shop and heads home.

Upon returning to Potter Manor, she is greeted by Charlus at the Floo, one hand out to help her through and to steady her, before tucking her securely into his arms. "There you are, my love. All finished shopping?"

Dorea laughs, rubbing her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt, leaning against him heavily. "I didn't buy a single thing."

"Ah, but I've been reliably informed that buying and shopping are two distinctly different things!" Charlus pulls his head back just enough to grin down at her, brown eyes glittering behind his glasses.

Dorea peers back up to him, examining his features for a long moment. His own thick hair has a few shiny pieces of grey, a funny streak just at the part, and a few smile lines bracketing his mouth and eyes… but otherwise, he looks just the same as on their wedding day.

She smiles, reaching up to pull his face down to hers. "You're entirely too brilliant for your own good, you know."

"Why yes, I did know! But thank you for reminding me of my brilliance." He grins, allowing her to pull his face closer, before leaning in and kissing her soundly.

Dorea laughs against his mouth, returning his kiss before settling back to her feet. "Besides, my love, there was no need for shopping. I have all I need right here." She drops her hand to tug one of his over to her swollen stomach, and she leans her head against his shoulder.

His arms tighten around her briefly, as he cradles her stomach in his large hand, before gently leading her into the house. "Let's get something to eat, hm? We need to feed our boy! He'll be a great beater, you know."

"Oh, I don't think so, Charlus. Maybe he'll be a seeker. Or maybe he'll not like quidditch _at all_!"

"Hold your tongue, woman! It'll be in the genes, all the way to our great-great grandchildren!"

She laughs out loud as he drags her off to the sunroom for tea. Yes, everything they need is right there.


	4. Part Four

PART FOUR

_Thirteen Years Later..._

Thoros is sure, positively so, that he has _never_ attended a more ostentatious and ridiculous party; which is certainly saying something, having grown into an adult with a golden spoon in his mouth. Even he allows his brow to raise, ever so slightly, at what he knows the wedding's costs must have reached – millions of galleons have been spent on this wedding and the reception party that follows.

The day that Narcissa Black took on the literal mantle of the Malfoy name would forever stand in his memory, even into his old age. The white velvet bridal cloak was lined with pure black crown sable fur in what he supposes must amount to an extremely broad allusion to the marriage of the Malfoy and Black families.

The bride and groom wore matching outfits: each attired in pure white from head to toe, the matching velvet stitched with silken white thread in dozens of peacock feathers. Laced amongst the stitching are hundreds of tiny crystals, creating a glittering effect across their outfits.

Narcissa's smile is already beginning to tighten at the corners, while Lucius flounces along at her side, smugly proud in his finery.

The only difference, besides the cut of the clothing, is their hair – Lucius' in a neat queue tied off with a strip of white leather, while Narcissa's elegant chignon is pinned with a glittering diamond hair pin… in the shape of peacock feathers.

Abraxas stands beside his wife along one expanse of the wall, a superciliously bored expression on his face as he gazes out across the crowd throughout his ballroom while studiously ignoring the hissed argument between the bride's mother and the groom's mother by way of his glass of firewhisky.

Thoros edges past the group of his peers, smirking at the two women's bickering.

Aurora Malfoy is in the middle of huffing, "What can you _even_ mean, Druella? They're a perfectly acceptable replacement for doves! Doves are overdone, beyond cliché! Besides, they're still white birds."

Druella Black lets out a soft sound that from any other woman may be a snort. "They're _peacocks_ , Aurora! They each weigh about three stone!"

"Oh, don't be so _ridiculous_. They barely even weigh one stone!" Aurora rolls her eyes as she turns her head from the other woman.

Thoros chuckles as he passes out of hearing range of the low argument, moving into the next open room. The ostentation – and oh, yes, the irony was _extra_ delicious to Thoros – of peacocks are now loose on the grounds, after being carefully herded through the beginning of the reception along with the announcement of the gift of the family of peacocks and peahens from the Malfoy groom to his new wife.

The rather sad peacock ice sculpture is something that rather resembles parts of the male anatomy more than the fowl, despite all of the cooling charms that surely are meant to keep it from melting completely.

He edges his way around the giant table in the middle of the room, groaning under the weight of all of the gifts piled onto it. He narrows his eyes, glancing over the pile of pure white and silver packages… before pausing on one in a particularly strong gold. The large, ornate "P" on the tag hanging from the gilded box practically screams from whom the gift was received.

With a grunt, Thoros turns away and pushes through the door into the next room. He lets out a heavy sigh at the sight of the bar before swiftly moving over to it. Within moments, he has a large tumbler of rather good bourbon in his hand from which he sips steadily. He continues to move restlessly, passing through decorated room after room while nursing his drink.

Eventually, he finds himself in an almost completely empty atrium. A small pond in the middle of the room glitters with small white lights, and even here white peacock feathers are tucked strategically into the charmed snow-covered bushes.

A woman sits on a bench beside the pond, gazing down into it. Thoros wanders over aimlessly, keeping a neat distance between himself and the other person as he leans over to peer into the pond. He watches the large white fish swimming through the glowing lights for a moment before he glances over to the woman. He blinks in surprise, his mouth opening slightly and for the first time in at least thirty years, the words just tumble from his mouth. "I wonder if the fish were charmed to match the peacocks."

A snort of laughter escapes the lady before she presses a hand against her mouth and turns soft cornflower blue eyes up to his. "That was remarkably on the nose, you know."

"I'm afraid this bourbon was quite a bit larger than it appeared. I'm beginning to suspect the elves." Thoros turns to set the almost empty glass on an empty plinth before turning back to the woman with a short clearing of his throat. "Thoros Nott. It's nice to meet you, Miss…"

"Flint." The corner of her mouth quirks up as she watches him closely. "Calla Flint." The fine brown wave of her hair tumbles down her shoulders and back, covering the back of her dove grey silk and lace gown. "And yes, I know for a fact that they have been. Charmed, that is. Normally they're all different colors; they're magical, you know. Bred for thousands of years in Japan by specially trained wizard monks."

Thoros' brow furrows as he stares down at the girl in shock and a mild sort of horror. She was sweet and intelligent, pureblood and _beautiful_ … and definitely hardly much more than nineteen. "How do you know all of that?"

"Oh, my mother is some sort of cousin of Abraxas'; I believe _their_ mothers are friends or something along those lines. I've come to stay summers occasionally, though not in years." She smiles, a sharp and brilliant kind of smile, her lower lip puckering out just slightly. "Won't you come and sit with me, Mr Nott? I can tell you all about Lucius' haircare regime. I'd be willing to be that he hasn't changed it in the past decade or so."

"While I must insist that we skip that particular conversation, I would otherwise love to sit with you." He steps over to settle on the bench and turns to look at her. He's taken aback by the full force behind her sweet eyes. Only one clear thought crosses his mind at that moment:

_Well, I'm buggered._


End file.
